


What The Thunder Said

by Salon_Kitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Dark, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Post-War, Tragedy, Wizarding Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: Dobby never saved them at Malfoy Manor.  The trio attempt to pick up the pieces of their lives after learning firsthand how war dehumanizes the soul.





	What The Thunder Said

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for hp_darkfest.  The title and passages are from T.S. Eliot's _The Waste Lands_.  This is meant to be a very dark fiction.  Warnings include rape themes, suicide attempt, and extreme violent imagery.

**What The Thunder Said**  
  
  
  
  
_AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces  
After the frosty silence in the gardens   
After the agony in stony places   
The shouting and the crying   
Prison and place and reverberation   
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains   
He who was living is now dead   
We who were living are now dying   
With a little patience_  
  
  
**I- “And we shall play a game of chess”**  
  
  
  
“Bloody hell, Harry, this is some wicked shit.”

  
  
Ron leaned his head back and let that familiar, floating feeling settle into his limbs, across his chest, and bloom into his brain like a squirt of blood in the bathwater; pulling him away from the hard edges of his life and into the liquid warmth of his salvation. His eyelids were already drooping; a stupid grin plastered to his face, no doubt, and he could feel his body literally sink into the big, ugly green sofa in Harry’s drawing room at 12 Grimmauld Place as if it were made of marshmallows on a bed of coals. The hit had been instantaneous and Ron’s last coherent thought was that Harry’s dealer always got the best stuff.

  
  
“Fuuuck, that’s smooth. Mundungus might be a thieving bastard, but he knows some interesting folk, that’s for sure. I don’t know how Armistead manages to smuggle this into the country. The MLE have a special task force devoted to tracking it.” Harry’s voice drawled as he fell back against Ron’s shoulder and slipped into the same inky haze, his arm extending to the ceiling as if expecting to be able to wipe away the cobwebs from the corner moulding. His fingers even made scraping motions, not noticing that there was distance involved and that his groping was not actually touching anything.

  
  
“How musssch did you get off’f him?” Ron slurred, already feeling like his eyes were rolling back in his head. Shit, he was going to be out for the night. That meant he’d have to stay over at Harry’s, which he hadn’t planned to do. There was a girl, or…somebody, that was going to be waiting to meet him…later, or whatever. Fuck it. There were always other bints to shag, he mused. He’d rather chase the dragon tonight, and enjoy his brief respite of peace.

  
“Mmm, don’t worry, mate, I got us covered for a while. I think I cleaned him out of his last Hungarian Horntail, though. Their tails are the best on the market, of course.”

  
Harry had started smoking the Dragon dust, ground down from the nether spikes of the vicious beast, almost a year ago, but he’d quickly introduced his best friend to the drug in an effort to tone down Ron’s ‘anger issues’, or so he had claimed. It had worked, though, even if Ron still wanted to beat the shit out of most people, but it had dulled that uncontrollable rage from those first six months after the war enough for him to get through most social settings without hurting someone. He’d gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble at the time; putting two blokes in the hospital with some severe damage because they’d “ _looked at him funny_ ”, he’d told the Aurors. He might have spent some time in Azkaban if Harry hadn’t intervened. Harry always took care of everything. Ron didn’t know how his friend was able to do it; to fool everyone in the Wizarding world into believing that the Chosen One, their savior, was the very picture of cheery sanity and servitude. Ask anyone on the street and they would gush over him-- _Oh, that Harry Potter, such a fine young man. Taking down the Dark One single-handedly and yet still so down-to-earth_ , they’d say. _Wouldn’t mind sharing a pint with the likes of him_ , the men would acknowledge admiringly. Yes; Harry Potter; Poster Boy for Normality. Ron might find the misconception hilarious if the truth didn’t hurt so fucking much.   
  
Then again, while Harry might be able to attend every honorary function the Ministry threw in his name with a broad smile on his face and a hearty handshake at the ready, that hadn’t been the case in his Auror training, had it? Harry couldn’t cut it, buckling under the pressure after only a few months and dropping out; Ron having already beaten him to the punch by several weeks. Minister Shacklebolt had personally expressed his disappointment to Harry and tried to re-enlist him, but he refused to go back. When they’d started, they’d both been so eager to make it through, to have a legitimate excuse to hunt down Death Eaters in hiding and do something with all of the aggression driving them into madness, but there had been too many rules, too much pushing, and _way_ too many psychological evaluations. Now, Ron was stuck helping George out with merchandise testing on the newest WWW creations. He spent his days buried in the back room of his brother’s shop in London, ingesting upgraded versions of Puking Pastilles and jotting down the results, spending his evenings in pubs looking for the next star-struck victim to take home to his flat and hate fuck into oblivion, spending weekends with Harry getting high and being somehow persuaded to attend seedy, sex clubs throughout the Muggle part of the city with his friend; all so he didn’t have to think about that nightmarish week in the bowels of Malfoy Manor.  
  
Harry, of course, didn’t have to do anything. He didn’t need a job when he was a bloody hero with two wealthy inheritances to live on, although the Ministry had given him some sort of consultant position so they could parade him around when necessary. Sure, Ron had his own bit of fame to contend with in his role as sidekick to the Biggest Arse-Kicker of the century, but he hadn’t actually been the one who had plunged his wand straight into Voldemort’s throat, although he would have given anything to have done it. Even after the madman’s blood had jetted in a stream to soak the stones of the castle floor, his gurgled screams fading while his eyes divulged their shock at being bested by one he’d thought he’d broken, Ron had wanted to stomp on the carcass until it was nothing but shattered bone and viscera. He could have ripped the dead man’s limbs from his body and raised them over his head in his victory cry, but Harry stepped in front of him to hold him back, that dead look in his eyes stopping Ron cold. Harry seemed to have turned a corner after that, and Ron had felt left behind. No more of the frantic, needy sex the three of them had fell into during the time they were licking their wounds at Shell Cottage. Harry had moved on to others to ‘heal’ him…a lot of others; sometimes disappearing with a new one for weeks before he or Hermione would see him again. He always came back to them, however; often seducing the bitter Weasley with meaningful words and soft touches, but Ron had decided that it was time he found his own way, too, no matter how much he stumbled blindly through it.   
  
“So, do you want to go to that party I told you about, tomorrow night? The hostess is the most sought after dominatrix this side of the Channel. It was invitation only, but I can get you in, no problem. Her little minions will love you.” Harry had elongated the vowels in the _no problem_ and _love_ , making him sound as if he were speaking in slow motion. His husky voice had gone quiet, almost in a whisper, and Ron had to really concentrate to hear him, but he frowned when the words penetrated his fog.  
  
“I dunno, Harry. Sounds like you’re going as yourself. Don’t think I could stomach it if you whore yourself out to the whole room again like last time. You go a bit overboard, mate.” He made sure to enunciate the last sentence carefully, his words clipped; hoping always that he might get through to Harry one day, but most of the time recognizing it as a futile endeavor.  
  
There was a heavy pause before the dark man at his side spoke up again. “We all have our idiosyncrasies,” he commented faintly.  
  
Ron couldn’t help but to find this choice of expression highly amusing. The intruding effervescence in his chest bubbled upwards and there were a few loud snorts before the guffaws broke through. “Idiosyncrasies?” He laughed again. “Merlin, Harry, you take the biscuit. You having another conversation with Hermione in your head, right now, or do you just have a talent for understatement?”   
  
It still bugged him that they could do that, as if it hadn’t been bad enough that Harry and Hermione already had a habit of finishing each other’s sentences, but he had come to accept it over time, not worrying so much anymore that he was on the outside watching them again. After all, he had only to think back on what had prompted the phenomenon in the first place before dispelling any building resentment over their newest style of communication. _Did you really want to be in that cage with them, locked together at their ankles, while Fenrir changed under moonlight?_ No, of course he hadn’t, which hurt him to admit. The echoes of their screams still woke him up at night bathed in a cold sweat, bile in his throat, remembering how the crowd of Voldemort’s faithful had oohed over the spectacle like the Romans watching lions maul bodies for their amusement, how he’d been struck dumb and helpless while that deformed monster had forced him to sit at his side, arm slung over Ron’s shoulder as if they were best mates and goading him to take in every detail of his friends’ violent debasement. 

 

 Ron let a shudder run through him, even though it was warm in the house, and inwardly he groped for that numbness to take hold of him again, to let the drug dissolve those memories like a swirl in a Pensieve. It was too late; that sickening rage had already pushed itself up into his breastbone, pulsing with its own life force, and the stale odor in the room seemed suddenly putrid. Red glowed behind his eyelids when he shut them tight; the grin now wiped from his face.

  
  
“We don’t talk like that much anymore,” Harry confessed, then sighed heavily. “Not since she made us take proper Occlumency lessons with that ex-professor that lives next door to her. Smart move, though, I’ll give her credit. I—I’ve benefited, definitely, from finally learning that little trick.” His voice grew soft at the admission, as if he were embarrassed by having mastered the skill.  
  
Ron had tried to absorb Hermione’s logic when she gave the boys her own explanation for the freak Legilimens-like transference. There was something about duress and a psychotic break, all mixed up with the drain on Harry’s magic after Voldemort’s little ‘experiment’. Apparently, there were books on the subject that addressed such an occurrence, but it wasn’t worth a mountain of Sickles to Ron if it simply meant that they would always know what the other was thinking or feeling, while he could only observe them and struggle to understand what the hell was going on in their heads, as usual. He supposed it had its advantages, though, as he thought back to how they’d almost lost Hermione.  
  
“You, uh, you can still…sense each other, though, right? If—if we needed to get to her again?” Immediately, a vision of her pale face set against the hospital pillows was summoned in his head, those bandages dark around her wrists.   
  
He had asked her later on, honestly curious, why she had used such a bizarre Muggle ritual to off herself, when she could have just simply cast an _Avada Kedavra_. “Because you can’t rely on magic to save you,” she had told him wearily. She had been upset with them both for finding her in time; that Harry had felt something wrong and Apparated to her home where she was bleeding into her bath was obviously an outcome she had not foreseen.  
  
“Yeah, she’s still there. Like, I know that the new psychiatrist with the Muggle practice that she’s been seeing has really been helping her. I can feel her getting stronger, more resilient. Luna really does a lot for her, too.”  
  
Now the images streaming through Ron’s head in bright colors and pulsing beats shifted in shapes from a defeated looking Hermione to a picture of the fey, blonde girl lying back on his bed, or rather, flashes of her body close up: long, alabaster legs, an elegant neck, those luminous eyes growing big as he entered her, perfect mounds of flesh with the delicate pink nipples that he laved and suckled so tenderly. Their old DA mate was the only person he’d been with where he could be that gentle. Everyone else, they were to be punished. If they wanted to fuck him, they would realize immediately that Ron was always in control. No one would ever, EVER, have the upper hand over him again. They had to pay in bruises for the pleasure of his company. All except for Luna.  
  
He hadn’t even meant to start the affair with the girl, but just get close enough to Luna to keep tabs on Hermione, the one woman that he wanted and couldn’t be with. He knew that those two had become something of a couple, and it simultaneously made him happy that she was finally opening her heart to someone but sick with jealousy that it hadn’t been him. Yet, why would Hermione want him now? How could she ever see him as a man again? She’d had to watch while he was used like a whore, he reasoned miserably, like some little bitch that was only worth the pleasure he could give with his mouth or bent over with arse cheeks spread wide; he was less than a man, he was nothing. _I don’t think Hermione will ever be interested in blokes again, you prat, so get over it_ , he chided himself. _Well, maybe just the **one** bloke_ , Ron thought darkly.   
  
For a while, it had been enough to catch Hermione’s smell on Luna’s skin when he met up with her. The two girls were similar in build, and when his eyes were closed, he could imagine the hair caught up in his fingers was bushy and brown. But then he had learned over time why it was that Hermione needed Luna; the dreamy witch issued soothing comfort from every pore, and he longed for a bit of that himself. Unfortunately, Hermione eventually discovered what was going on and had told him—via Luna—that she didn’t think she’d be able to talk to him for a while. Luna had smiled at him sadly and tried to explain that Hermione had been very hurt by Ron’s actions, but that Luna was working valiantly to make her understand how all three of them needed each other if they were to ever get past this. Luna had wanted to help them all in her own way, but Hermione had given her an ultimatum, so in the end the girl had chosen and it hadn’t been him.   
  
She’d been right, though, the trio did need each other, but Ron wasn’t really sure how much good they were actually providing each other. They were a hopeless mess together. Ron needed Harry for drugs and moral support, Harry needed Ron to rough him up while he fucked him, Hermione and Harry---well, they were giving each other more than thoughts, Ron knew that. His eyelids were slits as he lay amidst an imaginary pool of goo splendor and he slid his gaze over to his right to watch Harry’s profile when he made his next inquiry.   
  
“When’d you see her last?” he asked with a feigned passing interest, but his distrust growing while wondering how Harry was going to answer.  
  
“Um, blimey, I can’t think properly. Was it last month? Or maybe a few weeks ago, I guess. It was when she called me about that engagement at the Department of, uh, you know, with the elves and shit. Regulation and Control. She looked healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time,” he supplied, sounding more guarded than stoned, Ron felt. He had witnessed Harry’s smooth mask in front of family and strangers enough times to know when his friend was acting. Hell, who was he kidding? Harry was always acting. As if following Ron’s thoughts, Harry decided to lean over and lay his head in Ron’s lap all of a sudden, the young man’s face looking away from him to the wall. Ron twitched his leg at the contact.  
  
“I see. I guess that’s good,” he opined, but inside his head the scarlet sheen pulsed again. He knew without asking that it wasn’t a few weeks ago when Harry had last seen Hermione, but a few _days_ ago. He knew because he had seen it himself. Of course, he wasn’t about to admit to his best friend that he’d been following him. That might sound a bit extreme.   
  
They had met at her house and Harry had spent exactly two hours and twenty minutes there. He’d exited the premises through her front door before Disapparating, but Ron also knew that Harry had gone to see his favorite domme afterward, the one with the long black, wavy hair and the cruel laugh. His fucked-up friend had stayed with her for a lot longer than two and a half hours. Harry was usually unattainable for the rest of the week after a visit with that woman, hiding away in his depressing house and going out to those awful clubs every night while he got himself back under control. Frankly, Ron had been so surprised to have gotten a Firecall that soon after the tryst that he had forgotten his impatience with the twosome and their secret games. Now that he was reminded of it, paranoia set in. Just what the fuck were they doing with each other, anyway? Was Hermione letting Harry touch her again? Were they having sex? What the hell else would they be doing for _two, bloody hours_? He was being driven spare by their inability to just be honest with him. Why couldn’t they just own up to it? There were pink bursts in his periphery now as he let his hand snake its way up Harry’s back then slide into that thicket of spiky hair, his fingers curling around a hank and then tugging hard while grinding his teeth.  
  
“Mmmm, fuck, yeah,” Harry moaned into the pull, his head leaning backward with the motion. He instantly responded to the taunt by turning his head face down into Ron’s crotch, his mouth already biting at the buttons on the fly of his jeans trying to pop them loose. Ron stared at him for a few minutes as he kept up the tension in Harry’s hair, letting another disgusted snort escape at the absurdity of the situation.  
  
“You’re delusional if you think I’m capable of getting a stiffy any time tonight. He’s down for the rest of the evening, mate. Closed for business.” There was no way he could get an erection after he’d been on the nod. It would take a fair amount of sleep before he’d be getting any feeling down there again.  
  
Harry glanced up at him with a wicked smile adhered to his lips. “Well, you know how I like a challenge,” he boasted in that husky drawl.  
  
“Riiight, what’s a little biology and chemistry up against the knob sucking skills of the amazing Harry Potter. Do proceed.” Ron squinted down at him, his mouth a flat line as he watched the expression on his friend’s face falter at the sarcasm. Then a current of excitement tinged Harry’s retort as he looked darkly upon Ron’s left hand resting on his thigh.  
  
“You could just fist me this time,” he hissed. “With your belt, here…” His words trailed off as his hand wrapped around his throat. They had played that game before but Ron would be hard pressed to call it a pleasurable experience.  
  
“Harry, I love you, but you’re a sick fuck, mate. You ever plan on getting any professional help for that?”   
  
He absolutely hated that Harry was like this. It pissed him off terribly that Harry would just roll over and take abuse, would actively seek it out. His friend was a fighter; the fact that they were even here, still alive, was proof of that. He couldn’t abide seeing the man become a slave to his warped, sexual compulsions, this vacant walking shell who lived to have strangers demean him. It enraged Ron so much that he wanted to shake Harry hard and slam his head into a wall to knock some sense into him. Yet, he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t detect Harry’s manipulating and he wondered when it was that his best mate had gained control of the chessboard. After all, it was just what Harry wanted, too.  
  
Harry had sat up to straddle Ron’s lap, but he froze at Ron’s goading, his face going stony. “I don’t need any help,” he uttered.  
  
“Oh, you don’t think you’re damaged like the rest of us? You think it’s perfectly alright to let people hurt you and get off on it? That that isn’t some twisted way to relive what they did to you and think about _her_ again?” Despite his altered state, his hand shot out with lightning speed and tangled in Harry’s hair once more, dragging the young man’s face up to his. Harry’s breath quickened at the lurch, but Ron’s voice was soft as he pleaded with him. “They raped you, Harry, and they did a fair amount of it. For fuck sake, you know you got the worst of it. What Bellatrix did to you—the things she made you do—you have to deal with it one day.”  
  
He had to be pretty fucked up if he was lecturing his mate, Ron imagined. He knew he had no business calling Harry out, he was no better himself, but there was still that part of Ron that worried he was losing him; that his friend was disappearing right before his eyes.  
  
“Maybe I am dealing with it,” Harry insisted, his tone hardening, “did you ever think of that? It’s just sex, Ron. It can’t hurt you if it doesn’t mean anything. We’re just bodies composed of flesh and guts and a brain with neurotransmitters and impulses; where pain is just a mode of the mind. But the mind can beat it. They can do whatever they want to me. I can take it all.”  
  
Ron didn’t have a comeback to that, so he pushed his lips to Harry’s, instead. The drug in his system made the kiss feel wrapped up in velvet and fluid as if they were floating downstream. Harry’s skin was so soft, soft enough to bruise. Ron bit down on the plumpness like butter under his teeth and Harry moaned deeply, a plaintive gasp at the end. When the boys split apart, Harry’s lust was full in his face and Ron suddenly wanted him. His voice was throaty with his demand.  
  
“Magic is out of the question when we’re this out of it, so I hope for your sake you have plenty of lube handy,” he vaguely threatened. Harry’s excitement quickly returned.  
  
“I’ve got a Pepper-Up Potion that’s been tweaked with some extra fun things. When you take it with the Dust, you get these sunspots going off in your retinas and it’s totally wild, but cranks up the nerve endings and adds some definition to your trip. Best of all, it gets your dick hard for hours.” He had stripped off his shirt halfway through talking, and after casually dropping it to the floor, he dove for the buttons on Ron’s pants again.  
  
“Yeah? Who’d you get that from? Armistead?” Ron asked absentmindedly as he let Harry undress him. The bloody prat somehow managed to function under the influence much easier than Ron could ever attempt. Ron had seen Harry fucked up on Dust and still get through his dad’s retirement party without anyone being the wiser.  
  
“No, it was a gift from Mistress Natasha,” Harry admitted. The thought of Harry enduring a hard-on for hours while that woman worked him over was enough to creep him out. It was pretty obvious whom she resembled.   
  
It had become a given to Ron that anytime he and Harry went anywhere his friend would inevitably be drawn to the most powerful person in the room, usually sleeping with them if that person were so inclined. If that person also happened to be a woman, it was automatic; Harry would practically throw himself at her. And if that woman were a witch who possessed any traits that were comparable to a certain mad Death Eater who had been struck down in the last battle…well, it was a done deal. Ron simply couldn’t understand the obsession. He had suffered through, sick to his stomach, while Bella tortured Harry, so eager to get to _widdle, baby Potter_ after a round for one of them in the ‘rape room’, showing up in the basement under instructions from her Dark Lord to heal all of their physical damage so they’d be ready for more the next day. But Bella had wanted to play, tying Harry up and pouring her wretchedness into him night after night. Ron had watched horrified as she rode Harry’s cock, the boy flat on his back, while she’d ram her wand up his arse and _Crucio_ him from inside. Harry had screamed till his voice left him, choking on blood while his body contorted and bowed from the pain, Bella laughing insanely as she bucked on him like he was a wild horse. During the whole episode Ron roared how he was going to kill her the second he got his hands on her, how he’d rip her to pieces. The crazy bitch only mocked him when she even deigned to notice him. Yet, he’d failed at that, too. It was a joke that his mother had delivered the fatal blow, and she hadn’t even a clue what Bellatrix had done to them.  
  
He let Harry scurry off to find the potion, however, recognizing that the simmering under his flesh would have to be dealt with. Harry enjoyed it when Ron took his aggression out on him, anyway. Poor sod. He didn’t think Harry would ever be alright again, would ever be normal. None of them would. It was like living with your own personal Dementor every blasted day, tainting everything in your world with a sickly chill. A curtain had been dropped and you could see your brothers and sister and your friends through the scrim, but you couldn’t touch them, couldn’t feel them. The times that Ron was on his own, he felt like he was underground, buried alive in his self-loathing, the earth pushing into his ears and his nose making him panic that the very air was being squeezed from his lungs while he sat there doing nothing. The only bright spot that kept him going most times was the knowledge that there were still some of those bastards out there, and that one day Ron would find them. He’d have his day of reckoning.  
  
In his unstable zeal to get back to Ron’s cock, Harry tripped on the edge of the couch and fell over, hitting the side of his head into the low table. A glass that had been left from the day before was knocked to the floor with a smash, but Harry just gave Ron a goofy grin, feeling no pain. He held up the vial, victorious, and when he leaned over to pick up some of the broken pieces, Ron had a good view of that long, slithering black snake along Harry’s spine. The head was painted on the bony knob of Harry’s neck, making red eyes glitter in the movement of his shoulders as he stood up. Midway through their incarceration, Death Eaters had taken Harry away for a few hours and when they brought him back, he’d been catatonic and sporting the ghastly tattoo. Ron and Hermione had tried to find out what happened when he finally came to, but Harry refused to ever talk about it. Still, just looking at the thing was enough to set Ron’s blood to boiling. The feature certainly made Harry popular on the fetish circuit.  
  
It wasn’t too long after imbibing the Pepper-Up cocktail that blood began pumping back into his groin. His breathing grew heavy as Harry rubbed their pricks together. When Ron had enough strength back in his limbs, he managed to flip Harry over onto his front, pressing his enthusiastic partner into the couch while he smacked Harry’s arse hard, and Ron had felt that supreme sense of satisfaction at being in charge rush through him. Yes, Harry might be a sad little slut, but he gave Ron what he needed just like he did for everybody else. Harry wanted to be used and Ron was good at that, so the least he could do was oblige the sick fucker.   
  
After all, what were friends for?  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
**II- “At the violet hour, when the eyes and back, turn upward from the desk”**  
  
  
_I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a jar  
And when the boys said to her, “Sibyl, what do you want?”   
She replied “I want to die”_  
(translation from the Latin)  
  
  
  
Hermione peered out her window as the rain lashed at the glass, watching the cars slick by on the wet road as the motorists headed home for the day. It was a quiet neighborhood, so there wasn’t much traffic even at this hour, but it gave her a sense of belonging to the work day with the rest of the population to see them return. She did her work right here, at all hours, sitting at this desk bathed in full light and reading through her research as she typed away at her notes on her trusty Macintosh. The early evening was already dark and grey brought on by the weather, but she turned away for a moment to let the bright bulb of her lamp burn her eyes sightless, everything in the room going blurry as her head filled up with whiteness like batting. The young woman didn’t care much for the dark. She often thought about leaving the dreariness of English weather for parts of the world on the other side of the equator, for lands that were always soaked in sunshine and tropical seasons. Of course, that would entail her actually leaving her abode, and she wasn’t quite up to that level yet, but it was a nice dream to have.  
  
Dr. Getty had told her to start thinking in terms of goals and places she’d like to see herself moving to, both figuratively and literally. It helped her to define a future for herself, in some ways, believing for the first time that she _could_ have a future. It had been a long road to get to this point, but she was pleased with herself for the accomplishment. These were the things that made up Hermione’s life now: accomplishing academic breakthroughs for her work, accomplishing the kitchen renovation with only Luna’s help and no magic, accomplishing a telephone conversation with a solicitor without falling to pieces, being able to walk outside her back door and say hello to Joseph over the fence as he filled his bird feeder without having a panic attack. She was learning that her environment didn’t have to be so hostile, that there were patches of kindness and lightness around her if she was careful and attentive.   
  
  
Still, no matter how many spells she learned, she always had a fail-safe with Muggle, modern technology. If she had ten wards on her house preventing unauthorized admittance, there were still a row of locks on the front door and a computerized alarm system to further protect her should any advancing magic deactivate her spellwork. Hermione was not hooked up to the Floo network, nor did she take Firecalls, so she only had the local constabulary to ring were anything to go awry. And of course, she had Harry. That had worked out for her fairly well.  
  
  
Harry and Luna were the only two allowed Apparition access into her home without a tedious unpicking of some complicated casting. Ron used to be on her guest pass, but he scared her now. She just didn’t feel comfortable around his brooding. Ron always seemed like the proverbial ticking time bomb, and waiting for him to burst into violence was not something she needed in her safety space right now. She missed him, though; missed the way he used to be. She missed her parents, too, with a heavy sadness. It had been better for them to stay in Australia living their different existence unawares that they had a daughter, she had determined. Certainly not a daughter who had been smashed into pieces and could barely get out of bed most days; they didn’t need the heartache. So, her circle of support had grown very small, indeed. She did have her friends online that she could chat with throughout the day, and that helped enormously. Dr. Getty had even directed her to a website for rape victims that featured a message board where she could interact with other survivors. Hearing their stories and how they managed to get on with their lives had shown her that it was possible. Then again, most of the accounts that had been shared were nowhere near the horrific degradation she had been put through, but Hermione could still glean some comfort in knowing that there was a way out of the tunnel, that she didn’t have to die to end her suffering.  
  
  
_Baby steps_ , people would tell her, and she let it become a mantra every morning as she went through her carefully constructed daily schedule. Hermione smiled fondly to herself as she thought on how Luna was good at reminding her, too. There was a low boom as a thunderclap sounded overhead and Hermione cringed momentarily while the lights flickered. Oh, God, please don’t let there be a power outage, she cried inside. The flash outside came a few seconds later, lighting up the horizon, but the lights in all the rooms of the house stayed on and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her nerves were jangled now; the idea of a nice, hot cup of tea seemed just the thing to settle them. By the time she got to her new, nifty kitchen, there was a green glow popping up behind her eyes.  
  
  
_The storm’s already passed here. It wasn’t too bad. You won’t get much of the dramatic effects before it moves on. Don’t worry, ‘Mione, you’ve got your torches all over the house, remember?_  
  
  
Harry was right, she was being silly again. She’d prepared for any event of calamity and there was a surplus of torches in every drawer nearby for just that purpose. Plus, Luna would be home soon and she could handle a bit of darkness if she had one of her lovers next to her. She had her Dreamless Sleep potion for bedtime so the dark couldn’t hurt her, so that the feel of bodies pressing against her making her gag and fight for air was just a removed memory and not a presence. There was a slight pulse of the green in her senses. Hmm, Harry had picked up on that.  
  
  
_You know, you’re going to have to ease up on the potion eventually. That stuff is addicting._  
  
  
_I will…soon,_ she assured him. _I’m going to get dinner ready for Luna, so I’ll talk to you later, Harry_ , and with that she put up her shields and cut off their passage of communication. She had taken to Occlumency almost immediately, but what had been surprising was how quickly Harry had grasped it, too. She had figured Joseph would have a devil of a time teaching the boy, after his resistance with Snape’s methods, but Harry was really a natural talent with the art provided he had the right teacher. He had continued on to learn more about Legilimency, but she didn’t have any desire to spend time in other people’s thoughts. Harry’s and her own were more than enough for her.  
  
  
In the four years since their trauma and the end of the war, her closest friend had gone through several transformations, internally. She had been privy to most of them, but lost a bit of his struggle once they’d had enough lessons for him to start employing the shields against her and she’d been effectively shut out. At the beginning, he’d been overly protective of her and they’d relied on each other heavily, letting Ron into their collective mindset when they could tell he was getting upset, all of them finding what little comfort they could in each other’s bodies. She’d been so mortified when Bill had accidentally walked in on them at the cottage, the three interlocked by their sex: Harry inside her while she’d straddled him, Ron inside Harry, and Ron’s fingers rubbing the one spot that reminded her she could get some pleasure from this act as he probed her mouth with his beseeching tongue. Then things had changed once Voldemort was dead. Harry grew impatient with her clinginess and turned surly; sending her shocking images of what he was up to as if to suggest that he had recovery all figured out. His desire to be subjugated only sent her deeper into her depression, however, as she felt his strength leave her with nothing but a heartbeat to sustain what was left.  
  
  
After the ‘mistake’, as they all referred to it, he had changed on her again. Hermione had purposely waited until she’d mastered Occluding her thoughts before she had made the attempt; she had not been counting on impressions of her emotional state still coming through like radio signals. At the time, though, it had been the only way she could think of to switch the off button on the constant outpouring of memory into her head like a waterfall cascading into a bathroom sink. The Pensieve had only muted the sensations accompanied with the images, but they were still there floating around the murkiness, she couldn’t capture them all. She had caught Harry thinking about Obliviating her so that they wouldn’t have to worry about her trying another time, but she had confronted him on the matter, insisting that he couldn’t risk abolishing her precious, few good memories in the wipe. She would rather be fractured but still retaining some sense of self, no matter how slim, than some husk of a person who couldn’t remember if her childhood had been real or not. He had begrudgingly agreed to abandon the idea, but urged her to seek some outside help as a favor to him. He didn’t know what she needed anymore, he’d cried to her in despair. If she could just articulate what was required to make her better, Harry had begged, then he could do whatever it took to give it to her. It was only the second time Hermione had ever witnessed Harry cry like that; exhausted and unhinged. She didn’t like to think about the first time.  
  
  
Eventually, they had come to some sort of arrangement; Harry still visiting her frequently but the sexual component of their relationship adjusting to fit their needs. He had put her parents’ house on the market and helped her find this little cottage in a small, mostly rural town where she wouldn’t be stressing about crime or bothered by the press looking to find her for a story on the post-war activities of the heroes. He had gotten her a job at the Ministry in the Control of Magical Creatures division, but she hadn’t wanted to leave her home. Even though her reputation at Hogwarts assured her a lot of interest from academia, it was Harry who had suggested a partnership with the staff of the Department of Mysteries in a research capacity. He even played courier for her, so she wouldn’t have to set up any intrusive entries into her sanctuary. She had only actually ever met her boss twice in the two and a half years she’d been working for him, but it seemed that the secretive organization was used to minimal interaction in their far-reaching outsourcing of information.  
  
  
The tea kettle whistled and Hermione turned from the window again as she opened a cupboard to grab a mug from the shelf. Her wand was lying on the sideboard, but she only reached for it a few times a day, and her attention moved quickly to the object sitting next to it. Harry had left his scarf the other day. He had been acting a bit skittish with her the entire time he’d been there, making an excuse to leave rather abruptly after they were finished in bed. Hermione contemplated what may have been causing his mood as she stood there staring at the item, rubbing the bridge of her nose under her glasses when she felt the headache coming on. The frames were big and ugly, but she preferred them that way. She only really needed them for reading but had a habit of walking around the house with them on. Harry made fun of her, posing that she had been searching for the most hideous specs she could find, and teasing her that she had wanted to look like him on some level, like evil twins. Considering what they usually did together when he was there the idea of them as twins, or anything fraternal, was disturbing.  
  
  
Hermione wondered why she still needed Harry that way. Shortly after the war, after she’d moved back to her house, she wouldn’t allow the boys to touch her anymore. She didn’t want anything to do with sex, she had told herself, but the loneliness was another matter. After the suicide attempt, she had started spending time with Luna Lovegood after the girl had come to visit for a Quibbler-related story, but it had been a slow progression to anything intimate. The time that Luna had given her the first orgasm she’d experienced since Hogwarts during the clean-up, she’d sensed Harry there feeling her. She’d been an emotional mess afterwards, but it had also felt like a kind of breakthrough. Hermione had realized that she wanted to open herself up to Harry again; to be able to feel his vulnerability as acutely as he had felt hers. They had started with kissing and nothing more, both firmly entrenched in each other’s minds as the snogging went on for hours. She had been impressed with his fortitude and patience, so different from that period they’d gone through when he’d been so wild. She had tried penetration with him once, but her panic was immediate and so Harry had stopped, opting for going down on her to keep things as pleasurable as possible. It was decided eventually that oral sex was the extent of her comfort zone, but honestly, Harry did more for her than she could ever have reciprocated. He seemed to really enjoy ‘servicing’ her, as he called it, and after a while, he would coax her to treat him as such, a plaything that she could demand to satisfy her however she pleased. The whole idea did not sit well with Hermione, but she tried to make him happy in a basic capacity, for it was the least she could do in return, she had felt.  
  
  
The day he’d shown up with a gold ring through the head of his penis and asked her to run a chain through it to suspend him from the ceiling while he hovered magically over her bed, she’d been very upset. It had only served to summon up pictures of Bella hanging him by his limbs as she’d burned him in patches. He had calmed her down while quickly informing her that it was more a Muggle thing than anything; it was not considered a big deal. She hadn’t believed him; he couldn’t play the Muggle card with her the way he did with Ron, but she’d been lulled into an agreeable state after a while and they’d tried something else. He had even cajoled her to piss in his mouth a few times, although it bothered her that he was so insistent on presenting himself as some kind of degenerate. She knew there was more to Harry than that. When he’d visited her at the beginning of the week, she’d suggested that he start going to see Dr. Getty with her. They ended up having an argument over it, but he had turned off his irritation like a dial and settled for seducing her, instead. It was hard to deny Harry when he gave her that winning smile. Everybody fell for it. But his mercurial attitude persisted and he’d gone weird again before making his hasty exit. She sighed. Maybe Luna could explain it to her. The girl seemed to understand things about Harry and the rest of them intuitively without even the benefit of a mental dialogue.  
  
  
Apparently, Luna understood Ron, too, and had begged Hermione to give the man a chance, but the betrayed witch would not be persuaded. Ron was a different story for her and she didn’t make the same allowances for him as she did for Harry and Luna. She had given him her virginity as they were sequestered down in that dank cell waiting to be violated and she had expected more from him. It made her feel guilty to think it, but after their escape, she had started believing that Ron hadn’t been through nearly as much as her and Harry, that he should have been the stronger one, instead of acting like a murderous git and leaving Harry to clean up his shit. Furthermore, he was just an enabler to Harry’s destructive side, merely adding to Harry’s dysfunction with his pathetic co-dependency. She couldn’t tolerate it. Ron had suffered, too, yes, but he hadn’t been abused every night that they were in the Manor; he hadn’t been forced to have sex with her in front of an audience while they were jeered and spit on, he hadn’t been impaled on that horrid thing with Harry like some double headed see-saw while body bits were shoved in their faces and inside whatever hole could be filled, he hadn’t been put in that…that…cage with a monster. Hermione shivered violently for a moment in the recollection. She took several deep breaths as her thoughts turned to happy things; the face of her mother lit up when she brought home her grades, the way Crookshanks used to swish at her face in the morning with his tail, how her dad sang old Beatles songs at the top of his voice in the car, the sound of Harry’s laugh, and the feel of Luna’s touch on the back of her neck. Ron would have to be patient; she just couldn’t stand to be around him right now.  
  
  
She heard the next crack of thunder well off into the distance. Harry had been right; it hadn’t lasted long at all. She glanced over at the clock on the wall and smiled, knowing that Luna would be leaving her father’s house as soon as she fed him supper and then on her way home to her. Looking down at her bulky jumper and shapeless sweat pants, she decided that perhaps she would dress a bit more attractively for her companion, at the very least look like she’d put some effort into looking nice for the girl. Luna was forever telling her that she didn’t have to hide anymore. Maybe she was right.  
  
  
The sound of the rain grew to a faint patter on her roof. It seemed that the storm had passed.   
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
**III-“I will show you fear in a handful of dust”**  
  
  
  
  
Harry appeared in his bedroom with a sharp crack in the air and the familiar lurch in his belly coming to a standstill. His hands reached up to scrub his face tiredly and he barely gave the room a glance before heading straight to the washroom for a quick shower. He needed to get his sore muscles under some heat; it had been a long session. When he stumbled to the sink, he lit the bathroom then groaned aloud when he saw his reflection in the large mirror that took up most of the wall. The Savior of the Wizarding World looked like shit.  
  
  
The eyeliner had not only run down the sides of his face with his sweat but given him raccoon rings, while his hair was out of control. There were odd-shaped clumps in his black nest of matted strands, but Harry didn’t dwell too much on the origin of the substance that was gelling his hair into such a state. The lipstick he had worn had been eaten off, but there were still traces of it smeared up to his cheek. Harry sucked in his breath when his arms lifted to bring the shirt over his head, feeling the bruise on his ribs with the action. He got a good look at it under the light and grimaced. Shite; even as a woman two of those wizards hadn’t eased up on him at all. Fucking losers. Granted, he’d gone Polyjuiced as Pansy Parkinson this time, and her pinched face made her look every bit the nasty cunt she was, but still, the punching had been unexpected. Harry imagined he would be finding more bruises for the next several days.  
  
  
It was much safer for him when he managed to get Ron to attend these things. His friend had his troubles, but at least he knew when to step in and pull Harry back from his fever. Without Ron’s guidance, it was often only a seasoned Master or Mistress watching in the wings to keep him grounded in the scene. There had been more than a few times that Harry had pushed the participants involved in his punishment to a frenzy and they’d stepped over some lines. Harry was very good at pressing buttons to get what he needed. It wasn’t just that he was a pushy bottom, but over-the-top nutters. Some people loved how far he would let them go, but he did tend to shock a few of them into concern for his health. Yet, Harry alone couldn’t seem to control the urges he had to go farther, take more; to absorb the pain like he was being filled with some divine light. In his deepest trances, he would feel transported to another space, and that warm feeling would envelop him the way it did with the Dust, especially when he injected it right into his bloodstream. A couple of instances, he had gone even farther, but he had yet to make it to the places that Bella had taken him to. He kept trying, though.  
  
  
Sometimes, it was just about the sex. And, of course, the humiliation. Merlin knew; he couldn’t leave that part out of it. Whenever he discovered someone that was really creative in that area, he would be thrumming with the possibilities for days, building up crazy scenarios in his head and wondering if they were the one. Yet, most often, he would exhaust their imagination after only a few weeks. Harry just had no bounds. He recognized that that was not a particularly good thing, but still somehow convinced himself that the warning signs would come when he needed them. Hermione and Ron looked out for him in their own weird ways. Harry was fine.  
  
  
Really.  
  
  
The young man sighed as he finished undressing and reached past the frilly shower curtain to turn the faucet on. When the water started to spray, he swiftly got into the bath and let the pounding, hot needles hit his back and neck. He groaned loudly again and pressed his hands up against the tiles at the other end, stretching his body outwards as he offered up his backside. That crew surely had given him a workout. Surrounded by a group of just men this time while disguised as that slag, he’d had his hands full with such an aggressive bunch. Literally. He got treated differently as a woman, he’d learned. Sometimes, the hate he could feel was palpable, and he reveled in it. He hadn’t recognized any of the men there tonight, but the way that they had fisted his hair while they all fought to shove their cocks in his mouth, holding his head in a vise-grip as they took turns gagging him till he choked up spit into puddles on the floor, took him right back to the Death Eaters’ orgies with him and Hermione as the star attraction. He had felt then what Hermione was going through; he really shouldn’t have been surprised by the misogynistic loathing at all. It wasn’t always about blood, regardless of what the Death Eaters had called them.  
  
  
Once Harry was done in the bathroom and had made his way to his bed, he didn’t even bother with pajamas, but dropped his towel and slid straight between the cool sheets, curling around a pillow and ready to fall asleep almost immediately. He was so tired, and he had that big dinner and masquerade ball coming up tomorrow evening. He’d have a lot of running around to do in the morning. What a bother. He looked up at the clock by his bed to note the time and saw his trusty glasses sitting there. He only wore them occasionally now; contacts being much easier to deal with in his recreational activities. But he would make a point of wearing them for the Ministry dance. Harry wasn’t planning on wearing a mask, although he did have a splendid costume made just for the party. The guests wanted to see Harry Potter; stupid, signature specs and all. And you had to give the people what they wanted. Or so someone had told him.  
  
  
It was already three in the morning and Harry’s eyes fought to stay open for one second longer as they roamed to his window, the stars in the night sky twinkling back at him in some grand mocking. He wondered about _her_ a lot. Every day, in fact. There were times—even though he knew in his head that she was dead—that he thought he could feel her watching him. Her eyes had burned him so fiercely back then. He reminisced often about how she’d worn him down then broken him like he was a twig at her knee. The time she had shackled his arms to the wall, sitting him on that leviathan that reamed out his arse while she mounted him again, his prick in agony after hours with the stiffening potion; he’d gone to that place. _Tell Mummy you love her_ , Bellatrix had crooned to him, slitting her nipple open with her knife so that the blood could flow forth when she popped her breast into his mouth. She’d held his head and stroked his hair while he suckled her like a newborn infant for he didn’t have the strength to fight her madness anymore. The steel pins that pierced Harry’s flesh across the band of his chest had escalated the throbbing until his heartbeat was all he could hear, except for the strangely far-away shouts from Ron and Hermione. The boy he’d been could see only Bella in front of him, looming large and powerful in his senses—feeding him, fucking him, filling him—until Harry had no reason not to return what she demanded. 

 

  _You’re Mummy’s good little whore, aren’t you, baby? Tell me! Tell Mummy!”_ , and he’d answered her. Told her what she had wanted to hear. When Bella had bent her head down and kissed him, sucked on his lips the way she had sucked his magic right out of his cock, Harry had come undone. The sobs had followed his climax seconds later, like he was that frightened child again spending his first night in the cupboard.  
  
  
Harry was under no delusions. He knew that what they’d been through had been bloody savage. It would have to be for Lucius fucking Malfoy to be so disturbed by it all he’d actually helped them escape. But that was in the past now and Harry didn’t have time to dwell on things that were over. He wouldn’t let the pain of it become his suffering like it had for Hermione and Ron, but his salvation, instead. It had been a gift, really.   
  
  
Harry closed his eyes as he drifted off into slumber.   
  
  
And dreamed about Bella.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
He’d only been at the gala an hour and Harry was already itching to leave.   
  
  
It was exhausting work being Harry Potter at these things. All that smiling and attentive listening—laughing at all of their jokes then nodding concernedly when they shared their stories from the war—was really taxing on Harry’s conscience. He felt somehow responsible for all of these people gathered here, so he couldn’t just plaster on a fake grin when they sidled up excitedly to meet him; he had to mean it. The trick was to make sure the smile reached your eyes. The eyes always gave it away.  
  
  
There was quite a turn out for the event, or so Kingsley had impressed upon him. The hall was packed with revelers in their Hallowe’en finest, their ornate masks hovering by magic in front of their faces. As much as Harry hated this holiday, he had to admit that the ball had been a rousing success. Guests had paid their one hundred Galleons a plate for dinner just for the chance to meet The Boy Who Lived and Vanquished and he couldn’t let his apathy sway him from his duties. The entire benefit was for the purpose of raising funds for the new war memorial going up in Diagon Alley and Harry had been asked to give a speech, but he had begged off, insisting to Minister Shacklebolt that it was he who should be setting the tone. The people still wanted assurances that there was no way another Voldemort could exist. The Minister had his work cut out for him even now, years after the fall.  
  
  
After the lavish meal, the guests had moved on to the ballroom area and began to drink more heavily as the orchestra began playing. The mood was festive and the sounds of tittering laughter and clinking glasses grew denser as the string section added their own layer to the din. Harry scuttled quickly to the bar and sat down heavily on a stool ready to start knocking back the Firewhiskey. He was still feeling the bruises from the night before and was dog-tired, but optimistic. There were some very interesting people attending this evening; surely, one of them would be eager to take him home and give The Chosen One a spanking. As if on cue, a woman sat next to him just as he drained his first glass of the amber liquid.  
  
  
“And just what the hell are you supposed to be?”   
  
  
Her voice was caustic, but carried a rich, velvety purr that set Harry off on an erotic charge almost immediately. It was the voice of a woman who spared no time for inanities and coyness. This voice was capable of being cruel and sexy at the same time. Harry was already captivated before even turning to take in her appearance. He waited a few beats before doing so, however, ordering another shot from the bartender with a glance and nod of his head. When he smoothly swiveled his head toward her to answer, he was struck dumb for a moment as her features played havoc to his senses.  
  
  
Her hair was a long, tumbling mane of waves and curls, black as the night, but streaked with tints of a deep violet that shimmered under the warm lights. Her half mask consisted of a burnished gold band across her eyes, plumage in viridian green tufting from the sides and extending to the back of her head. Since the bottom of her face was uncovered, his eyes sought her mouth first. Her lips were indeed cruel, curved in a smirk, painted in blood red, yet still voluptuous and inviting. He let his gaze traverse her sinewy neck which led him to the bursting décolletage of her honeyed gown. More green feathers adorned her bodice, giving her an exotic flair. When he looked back up to her face, though, her eyes pierced him like he’d been run through with hot knives. Even through the holes of the cover he could make out the heavy lids above smoky irises. The woman stared back at him with an intensity that belied her dismissive sarcasm. Those eyes knew him and it took all of Harry’s faculties not to shiver in front of her.  
  
  
“I’m whatever you want me to be.”  
  
  
The words fell from his lips automatically. She encouraged it just by her presence, he noted. Harry had to mentally remind himself where he was before saying anything else so suggestive. He hadn’t even sussed out her character to be talking so forward already. Harry Potter, after all, did have a reputation to uphold. He usually waited till they got him home before acting like a wanton slut.  
  
  
Her response to his cheek was immediate, her smirk creeping up one side of her face wickedly. “So I’ve heard,” she remarked mysteriously.  
  
  
Harry squinted at the vagueness, and for a second he felt a little embarrassed. Had she heard something? There were certainly wizards and witches who had come to know of his affinity for degradation, but they were usually up to such things that would ensure their silence. He decided that perhaps it would be better to answer her original question and find out more about her.   
  
  
“Um, I’m dressed as an old-fashioned aviator,” he explained, waving his hand over the long coat that almost hit his ankles and the heavy boots. The skullcap he wore over his head with the bizarre goggles had appealed to him when he’d seen it in a sketch in one of Hermione’s books. The white silk scarf wrapped once around his neck gave the whole ensemble a nice, authentic touch, he’d thought.  
  
  
“Aviator? Is that some sort of Muggle thing?” she retorted snidely. When he’d confirmed that it was, however, she only smiled back at him with a smug expression. “You know, when you attend a masquerade ball, the point is not to wear a silly costume, but to look extravagant and alluring. Did no one in the Ministry explain it to you properly, Mister Potter?”  
  
  
“I’m afraid I didn’t get the memo,” he quipped back. Her nose crinkled at the lingo, but then she turned her head to the bartender behind the counter.   
  
  
“I suppose I’ll have to get my own drink,” she cracked before asking for a whiskey. “And bring the bottle!” she shouted at the man’s retreating back.  
  
  
Harry was only amused at her fake affront. “Sorry, but you hadn’t given me the opportunity to offer it, yet. What can I do to make it up to you?” This might be a good evening, after all, he decided.  
  
  
“I’m sure I can think of something,” she replied, yet it didn’t come out flirtatious, but rather darkly promising. Harry’s insides fluttered a little at the tone. This woman would know exactly how to treat him.   
  
  
“Well, I’m open to any and all suggestions,” he informed her. He didn’t think he could make it any plainer if he had worn a sign over his head with the words FUCK ME emblazoned there.  
  
  
“Yes, Harry, you certainly are.” This time, Harry couldn’t contain the shiver that ran through him when she said his name. His eyes closed for a moment and he could hear _her_ in his head. _Little baaaaby; my little, bitty Harreeeee_.   
  
  
When he opened them again, she was leaning toward him with the open bottle in her hand, reaching to pour into his shot glass while giving a very full display of cleavage in the stretch. “Drink up, little boy,” she demanded before swigging her alcohol. Harry needed no further prompting.  
  
  
As they began conversation, he noted how her demeanor was haughty and impatient, which only turned him on the more she spoke. Within the first twenty minutes, they’d already consumed one bottle and had moved on to the next. Their banter traded back and forth like spell blasts in a duel, but still he knew nothing about her other than that her throaty laugh was the most deliciously inviting sound to debauchery he’d ever heard. He could hear whips cracking in the background every time she did it. When she cajoled him to join her on the dance floor he felt helpless to deny her, even though his inebriation by this time was surely throwing off his rhythm. Imagining that they were drawing some curious stares as her hands caressed his back and bum while they moved Harry let her pull him closer as his skin tingled wherever she touched him. He was taller than her, but just by an inch or so, and when she turned her mouth to the shell of his ear and breathed her desire to find a less populated area, he felt his knees go weak.   
  
  
He found himself not even five minutes later standing in a storage room behind the kitchens with her mouth on his and her hand rummaging in the front of his pants. He was already well hard for her and hearing her low, rumbling laugh again when she felt the rigidity under her touch only made it throb more tightly. It was strange, at first, to be kissing her with her mask still on, but it wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t played those games before. He let her dictate the rules of this little engagement and stretched his hands up against the wall on either side of him to indicate his submission. The woman seemed to like it, for her wand was soon out and making quick motions and Harry felt his wrists seized and go taut as ropes pulled them straighter to the opposite ends of the space. He moaned his approval which then deepened gloriously a second later when she unbuckled his belt and started to pull down his pants. Harry was surprised to feel her lips envelop his aching cock; these things usually went the other way around, with Harry being the one on his knees. Typically, he was not fond of women giving him blowjobs. Not since….that time; and the way that she was so quick to bob on his prick, the adamant grip of her mouth burning him with an almost painful sensation, reminded him of that indescribable feeling when his magic had swirled up into his center and flowed out of him. It might have replenished itself since then, but it was an experience that he would never forget, and at the hands of someone he would always remember.   
  
  
“Wait. Let me do that for you,” he tried to tell her earnestly, but she smacked the inside of his thigh hard, waiting for his groan before doing it again to the other leg.   
  
  
“Shut up and let me decide, little whore.”   
  
  
Her voice sounded deadly now and for a brief second, Harry worried at what he might have gotten himself into, even as he moaned in agreement to her verbal abuse. She stood up in front of him all of a sudden, and when her wand moved about her face he realized he was about to see her reveal and held his breath. Without the mask, she was quite beautiful, particularly in her aroused state, but her face was unfamiliar to him, and as he slowly exhaled, he couldn’t help but feel the slightest disappointment. For one incredible moment, he had thought it might be the Mad One herself. The likeness was still close enough, however, for him to imagine that there might be parallels in the way both women worked, too. At least, that’s what he hoped.  
  
  
He didn’t have to wait long for his answer, for her wand was back to its rapid swishing, and the next thing he felt was his scarf tighten around his neck while the tails swung upwards. The cinch was just loose enough to allow him to breathe minimally and he panicked those first few seconds the way he always did in such a scene before calming himself to adjust his heart rate. Then she was pulling his goggles off of his head and twisting them around so that the eyepieces were nested and stuffed into his mouth; the band wrapped to the back of his head and knotted tightly. Her hands moved to rip open his shirt, the buttons flying in every direction, and when her teeth took hold of his nipple to bite down, Harry’s body jolted as a quick scream remained in his throat. He was ecstatic by now; his instincts had proven right and he was in the hands of someone who could hurt him the way he needed to be hurt. Harry was already lost to the possibilities that the rest of the night might hold. The woman was fervent in her attack of his body, as if she had been waiting to get to him for a very long time, and this only served to further enflame him, his desire wavering off of his skin like a gasoline vapor.   
  
  
With his protest contained, she went back to work on his purpling knob, her gulps around the head scaring and delighting him simultaneously until his sight was muddled and he could hear only the blood rushing into his ear drums. She pushed his thighs further apart until he was squatting awkwardly trapped by his pant legs, but when he felt a sharp nail scrape along the underside of his scrotum and follow up to the puckered entrance on the other side, his eyes shut tight as he prepared for the penetration. She didn’t bother to soften the intrusion as she pulled his hips forward and Harry could feel the itchy burning follow her finger until at last she was well inside. When her mouth started to work in tandem with each addition of more fingers, pushing them in slowly while she sucked down his length at the same time as if her lips were trying to meet them in the center of his groin, the hypnotic pace she set made his eyes flutter to the back of his head. Her pace quickened until the friction was consuming him; he felt raw and lit up. When he came, he keened around the makeshift gag until his head felt full and swollen, ready to burst like a fetid pumpkin; his eyes scorched.  
  
  
He pulsed in and out of his haze until the sensation of his restraints going slack helped him orient himself. Once he’d pulled the goggles from his mouth with his free hands, he opened his eyes expecting to see her sadistic smile. But the room was empty.  
  
  
She was gone.  
  
  
The letter came the next day at his home. He smiled when he touched the paper, he could smell her perfume on it; the redolent linger of lilacs. Of course he would go to her; he was compelled to.  
  
  
When she met him at the door of her brownstone, she smiled in that devious way of hers. The storm had come up swiftly and Harry was soaked on his entry point, but she took his coat and waved her wand to dry him. The thunder rolled on outside as she took him through the foyer to the back of the house. The interior spoke of old money and former grandeur, but it was as dark and foreboding as Grimmauld Place, which only made Harry feel more at home. Their supper was a sophisticated entrée that he’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce, but it was the wine that kept flowing that left Harry feeling high on the anticipation of what was coming next. The volleying of barbs continued until Harry’s slurring became noticeable even to his ears. His growing wooziness suddenly alerted his suspicion, but he didn’t even have an opportunity to confront her before his eyelids were folding as his head drooped back, eventually slamming forward to the table when he lost consciousness.  
  
  
Somehow, Harry had always known she would come back for him. It had been inevitable, really. Before he even opened his eyes again, he knew she would be there, knew what to expect.   
  
  
As he awakened, his eyelids slowly rolling back as if only a second had passed in one blink, he could make out the drab stone ceiling above him. It was much colder down here. There was an echo in the hollowness of the room as if they were in an underground chamber. While he took in more of his surroundings, his awareness sharpened enough for him to feel his arms overhead, bound to something above, while his ankles were locked in the same style of manacle cutting tightly into his skin. He was prone, lying on more cold stone. He could hear the clicks on the floor reverberate through the space and then Bella’s face peered down at him with that triumphant grin, her teeth gleaming while her heavy-lidded eyes bore into him.  
  
  
“Hello, Harry, baby. Mummy’s home.”  
  
  
Harry felt his chest heave in his rising panic. This was Bellatrix. Dead Bellatrix made flesh again. But then he supposed that if Voldemort could conquer death once, surely his most vicious lieutenant would have found a way, too.  
  
  
“You. I saw you,” he breathed heavily, almost gasping. “You were hit with that Killing Curse square in the chest. I saw you go down. I even…I even felt for a pulse.”  
  
  
“Oh, come now, Harry. Did you really believe that old, fat cow could destroy the likes of _me_? That whole ridiculous scene had been planned months before. I knew you would kill him, Harry. I was counting on it.”  
  
  
That surreal feeling slowly slipped into a growing iciness which settled into his body as his world started to ebb away. He had waited for this moment, too. Harry had been suspended in life, that limbo a dead weight that had threatened to crush the air from his lungs. He had searched and searched for her replacement, yet knowing that he would never find that sadism in anyone else delivered with such a fine point of clarity disguised as insanity. And here she was. His nasty, secret wish made real.   
  
  
Harry’s terror was ineffably twined with his exultation and he choked on the acrid taste it left in his mouth. Yet, he felt whole again, realizing only now that he’d been cut in half since he’d escaped, since running from her and her gift.  
  
  
“Now, I have you all to myself. Won’t that be nice?” she tantalized as her sharp nails crept along his naked belly.  
  
  
He thought he could hear the sound of the thunder even down here. Down where no one would know where to find him. And then Harry smiled at her, ready to go to that place, once again.  
  
  
“Yes, Mummy. All yours.” 

 

 

 


End file.
